


Strange Bedfellows

by Rose Emily (toomuchplor)



Category: Smallville
Genre: Established Relationship, Futurefic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-21
Updated: 2004-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-01 06:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/Rose%20Emily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark is stuck halfway around the world, and his roommate leaves much to be desired. For svmadelyn's undermistletoe challenge 2004.  A/N: I have written some pretty damn weird things, but this has got to top them all. Thanks to iykwim for copious prompting. This would not have gotten in on time if not for her help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Bedfellows

"There must be some mistake," Clark insisted, tiredly. "The airline assured me I would be granted accomodation here. Did you check under Luthor?" 

The hotel clerk rubbed his eyes and blinked at the computer screen. "Yes. We have -- but that's not you, is it... I'm sorry, Mr. Can't. We kent help you." Clark waited a moment for the clerk to recognize his verbal slip, but the man behind the desk was either strung out on something as expensive as the hotel lobby or he was as deeply tired as Clark himself. This kind of luxury accomodation came with clerks who spoke perfect English, even in Malaysia, but there seemed to be some sort of rush at the moment. Clark could feel the glares of other hotel guests in line behind him. 

Clark sighed in resignation. Lex's birthday dinner was tomorrow, and this delay in his flight meant that it would already be a close thing for Clark to make it in time. Being stuck on the other side of the world wasn't a huge issue for a flying alien, but it became more complicated when Clark Kent failed to redeem his airline ticket on the way back from Malaysia, and yet showed up at work the next Monday. No, he would have to zip home tonight, stay with Lex at the penthouse while he slept off the jet-lag, fly back to Malaysia, catch his flight, and spend hours in the air pretending that he wasn't insanely frustrated by the lumbering pace of a trans-Pacific flight. And even then, knowing Clark's luck, there'd be a snowstorm in Metropolis. In September. And he'd miss Lex's dinner anyway. 

This day could not get any worse. 

"What do you _mean_ , my reservation isn't in the computer? Do you know who I _am_?" 

Oh, god, yes it could. 

Clark turned his head to confirm what his ears had already told him: Lionel Luthor was standing not ten feet away, shouting at another hapless desk clerk with much greater spirit than Clark's apathy had allowed. It made sense, in a dark and twisted way. After all, Clark had been covering the financial development conference in Malaysia where Lionel had been a keynote speaker. Lionel must have been staying, like Clark, in the conference facilities until the end of the conference today. LuthorCorp had a private jet, but it wasn't big enough to take on such a long journey. Lionel must have been booked first class on the same flight as Clark, which had been cancelled due to inclement weather. And now they had both been shuttled to the same hotel by the airline. And, apparently, they had both been rejected as potential guests by the hotel's booking system. 

"We can't get you a -- a room," stammered the clerk in his flawless but still-inadequate English. "I mean, we have no more space--" 

"The hotel is completely full, I take it?" Lionel snarled. "This is unacceptable. I must speak with the concierge." Clark wasn't even wearing his Superman costume -- it was too hot in Malaysia to have spandex under his suit -- but he nonetheless felt the urge to rescue the clerk, and surprised himself by stepping forward. 

"Mr. Luthor, I didn't expect to run into you here!" he forced himself to say in a hearty, friendly way. 

Lionel's aspect shifted immediately upon hearing his name pronounced in such a manner. He ceased his looming, threatening stance, and turned towards Clark with a congenial smile. The carefully pleasant expression was overcome by momentary surprise as Lionel recognized his son's spouse. 

"Mr. Kent," he beamed paternally, his smile cloying and false. "What an unexpected pleasure. I hope you haven't encountered the same difficulties as I have with these, erm, _sub-standard_ hotel clerks?" 

Clark was loath to stand on the same side of the fence as Lionel, ever, but here he was forced to smile tightly and mutter something about mix-ups. He immediately tried to right his moral compass by turning to the clerk Lionel had been berating. "You know, the confusion might be because of my official last name," he suggested. "My married name, I mean. It's the one on my passport. It's the same as this gentleman's." 

The clerk blinked several times before taking Clark's hint and typing furiously. "Oh, you're both Luthors?" she asked with audible relief. "Oh, I understand what happened. The computer has assigned you both to a single room. One bed. The system must have been uploaded with the wrong information and somehow you were registered as a married --" 

"We have a room?" Lionel interrupted curtly. "A room with a bed to sleep on?" 

"Y-yes, sir, but I'm sorry to say that there is only the _one_ room," the clerk managed nervously. "That is, I can only accomodate one of you. Which one of you is Alexander?" 

Clark half-laughed before he caught sight of Lionel's expression. It was murderous. "I am. That's my middle name," Lionel hissed slowly. 

"It's also my husband's name," Clark offered lamely. He didn't really care if he got the room. It was just an interesting fact. 

"Oh, is it?" the clerk asked, frowning at the keyboard, obviously expecting the computer to understand her desperation and provide a Solomonesque solution. 

"Now, now, there's a simple answer," Lionel tutted, suddenly getting dangerously soft-spoken. "Mr. Kent here is my son-in-law. It won't hurt either of us to spend a single night in the same room." 

Clark gaped. 

And gaped some more. 

But the clerk was gratefully babbling instructions, handing Lionel a key and directing them towards the elevators, summoning a bellhop to relieve Clark of his natty briefcase and Lionel of his leather suitbag. 

And Lionel was smiling and nodding and following along, as though this were a simple and convenient answer to their difficulties. 

Clark couldn't very well _refuse_. After all, he and Lex were in the habit of playing nice with Lionel. They'd found that the old man was much more tolerable when they pretended to get along with him, and Clark's investigations and Superman's interventions usually combined pretty effectively to circumvent Lionel's more nefarious schemes. So they had family dinners and they exchanged monthly phone calls, and generally they all pretended that their family unit was a perfectly normal one that in no way included a history of drugs, electroshock therapy, murder, and deception. It was far from easy, but it was at least functional. 

And now Clark was standing in an elevator, on his way to spend the night in a double bed with Lionel Luthor. Who knew what kind of plan Lionel had in mind? Was he going to perform tests on Clark in his sleep? Did he have kryptonite secreted somewhere in that expensive luggage? Had Lionel actually _had the flight cancelled_? Had he created the monsoon raging outside? 

And, most importantly, did he wear clothes to bed? 

Maybe there would be a couch. 

* * *

There was no couch. There was one impossibly tiny double bed, and there was Lionel, hanging up his suit jacket and offering Clark first choice of which side he wanted. 

"Right?" Oh, no, would Lionel take that as some sort of underhanded jibe? That Clark was saying he was always _right_? Would this come up over Thanksgiving dinner? 

But Lionel only laughed quietly. "Lillian always slept on the right-hand side," he said in a voice that Clark instinctively feared. 

"Lex sleeps left," Clark returned, because it seemed like the thing to do. They were trading marriage stories. Next they would chat about taking out the garbage or forgetting anniversaries. 

But Lionel didn't pursue the conversation. Instead, he busied himself with his luggage, extracting a shaving kit and politely informing Clark that he would use the bathroom first, if that was all right. 

"Fine, fine," Clark managed, sitting on the edge of the bed. He had already scanned Lionel's luggage several times and had found nothing suspect other than a Kenny G CD. (Clark had always suspected the whole 'opera enthusiast' thing was a front, anyway.) If Lionel had no ulterior motives, then why on earth had he forced them both into this awkward situation? Surely he couldn't just be lunging for the chance to bond somehow? Clark was completely stumped. 

Clark glanced at his watch. 10 p.m., which made it 8 in the morning in Metropolis. Lex would just be heading out the door to work. Already flinching at the prospect of this call going on his Planet expense account, Clark reached into his pocket and extracted his cell phone. 

Several dozen digits later, the phone was ringing around the world. 

"Go," Lex said. 

"I hate it when you answer the phone like that," Clark complained automatically. 

"Aren't you supposed to be on a plane home right about now?" sniped Lex back. 

"There's a monsoon. I'm in a hotel." Clark quickly x-rayed through the wall of the bathroom and discovered, to his dismay, that Lionel brushed his teeth in the nude. "Ew." 

"Ew?" 

Clark lowered his voice. "There was this mix-up, and ... well. Your dad and I ended up sharing a room. And a bed." 

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. 

"Lex? What do you think he's up to?" Clark hissed, panicked. "I checked his bag and -- oh my god, do you know he listens to Kenny G? -- I mean, there's nothing dangerous. Well, nothing overtly dangerous. But this is --" 

"Clark. Clark!" Lex was saying urgently. "Listen to me." 

Clark obediently managed to stop the frantic flow of words from his lips. "Yeah, Lex?" 

"Clark, there's something you need to know about my dad." 

Oh, god. Lex's dad had a team ready to attack. He had red kryptonite in his luggage downstairs. He knew all about Clark and Superman and he would do tests and Clockwork Orange conditioning and turn Clark into his Minion of Darkness and make Clark associate Kenny G with violence (more than usual). Clark was four minutes away from becoming Lionel's favorite lab rat! 

"Clark, he's a -- oh, christ. He ... when he's sleeping ... Wait, which side of the bed will you be on?" 

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Clark yelped, too loudly. "Lex, is he going to turn me into his personal supertoy or what?" 

"He -- ew, Clark! No, you need know that he's a night humper." 

"A _night humper_?" Clark repeated incredulously. 

"Actually, I prefer the term 'noctural thruster'," Lionel submitted, emerging (in a robe, thank god) from the washroom, flossing his teeth idly. 

"A nocturnal --" Clark repeated, yet more incredulously. "I -- have no words." 

Lex was almost laughing on the other end. Only an alien would have been able to pick up on it, but Clark just happened to be one of those. 

"It's better to sleep left," Lex advised in his almost-hysterical voice. "Sleep left and maybe build some sort of pillow fort--" 

"It's a well-documented sleep disorder, Clark," Lionel was saying at the same time. "Common among great leaders. Phillip of Macedon, for example --" 

"-- but make sure they're, you know, _heavy_ pillows," Lex continued, "because light polyfill ones don't really do much to stop him when he gets going --" 

"-- and Bruckner, not a leader, granted, but he once thrust his way out into the corridor while he was writing his eighth symphony --" 

"-- you know, you'll probably be fine, because you're quite a bit taller than my mother was, and me for that matter, at least back when --" 

"-- nothing to be alarmed about, simply ride it out, the episodes rarely last longer than a quarter of an hour or so --" 

"-- but then, you won't fall off the bed as easily, either. Whatever you do, don't let him get a leg over, or --" 

"How do you know about this?" Clark shouted into the phone, just as his mind was about to shatter from an overload of insanity. 

Now Lex granted himself a real laugh, and he and Lionel spoke in tandem about sharing a hotel bed once on a vacation in Barcelona when Lex was twelve. "And don't let him feed you that bullshit about Bruckner and Phillip of Macedon, I looked it up later, and it's completely fabricated," Lex added. "He can't handle suffering from a disorder that didn't also afflict someone famous or powerful." 

"In fact, Shakespeare himself," Lionel said at the same time, "had a sort of iambic pentameter thrust that transferred itself into his plays." 

"I'm sleeping in the bathtub," Clark told them both, firmly. 

"Don't be silly," Lionel said dismissively, just as Lex said, "Like _that'll_ help." 

"Oh -- oh god!" Clark managed. This was much worse than the red kryptonite-Clockwork Orange scenario. "Lex, I'm --" 

"No, Clark, you can't fly back," Lex said, softly, authoritatively. "You'll just have to -- well, you're invulnerable. You've swallowed explosives and fought robots. Surely you can handle this?" 

"It's -- Mr. Luthor, I don't mean to offend you, but --" Clark tried, looking up at Lionel, who had resumed his flossing, blithely unconcerned. 

"I take no offense," he assured Clark. "I only ask that you forgive me in return, for any trespasses I may commit while sleeping." 

Clark swallowed, listening to Lex break into active laughter over the phone. "I -- yes. I mean, of course I will." 

This day could not get any worse. 

* * *

Clark's cell phone rang around two a.m. His reflexes allowed him to pick it up only milliseconds into its trilling ring -- he'd been wide awake, after all, in terrified anticipation of Lionel's approach -- and his bedmate didn't so much as stir. Which was a source of great relief to Clark. 

"Hello?" he whispered, dragging himself upright gingerly. 

"Has he made a move yet?" Lex asked with daytime volume, which made sense because it was noon back in Metropolis. 

"No," Clark whispered back, torn between anger and relief at the sound of Lex's voice. 

"Did you do the thing with the fort? Also, keep a glass of water on the --" 

"You're not funny," Clark cut him off, smiling in spite of himself. "Does he really..." 

Lex laughed, more softly. "Yes. But it's not as awful as I made it sound. Just push him away and let him use the covers." 

"Gross," Clark said. "I get why you had the therapy now." 

Lex chuckled again. "So ... what are you wearing?" 

"Lex," Clark said, kicking his feet free of sheets. "Don't even." 

Lex's voice dropped another few notes. "Are you wearing those worn-out old flannel shorts? The ones you were wearing that time I--" 

"Lex," Clark repeated, more urgently. Lex's voice was -- doing things. To Clark. Things that weren't remotely appropriate when he was sharing a bed with his father-in-law, things that were even dangerous when one considered the nighttime habits of said father-in-law. 

"Do you remember that, Clark?" Lex said, smoothly, warmly, and oh god, the voice was enough to do it, to bring back that memory of that first day, the two of them sacked out on Lex's leather sofa, the seemingly-innocent way they had cuddled into each other during the movie, the way one thing had led to another until Clark found himself losing his virginity to Lex's hand through a layer of thin old flannel. 

The flannel was even thinner now -- Clark could never bring himself to throw the shorts away, not with their sentimental value -- and they were getting a bit tight, at the moment. 

"Mmm, you looked so good, I remember the way you couldn't even open your eyes, you were so turned on, but your mouth was open the whole time, and --" 

Clark whimpered, resisting the urge to run a hand over his chest, the way Lex had done that long-ago night. 

"-- Shit, Clark, I'm so hard. There's no one in the room -- the meeting's over -- but someone could walk in any minute. Do you want me to --" 

"Yes," Clark said, desperately, seeing it vividly, Lex in that gray suit, his pants tented, his hips shifting restlessly in his swivel chair. 

"Yes," echoed Lionel in a deep, sleepy murmur. 

Clark jolted back to the disturbing present. Lionel, three feet away. Lex, talking dirty at this moment. Clark, quickly losing his erection. 

"Lex, your dad," Clark said, quickly. 

"Clark, that's not really going to do it for me," Lex said darkly. Clark could almost see him, scowling at the table, lifting his hand off his fly. 

"No, your _dad_ is sleeping _right next to me_ ," Clark hissed. "So unless you want me to develop some seriously warped associations, this has to stop." 

"Fly over here," Lex suggested, the sound of his voice telling Clark that Lex was still too turned on to be making major decisions of that nature. 

"Lex." 

A sigh. "Fine. But you better not miss my birthday dinner tomorrow." 

"I won't. I won't miss the dinner and I won't miss the birthday sex, either," Clark promised earnestly. "I'll hop out and push the plane myself if I have to." 

"I'll hold you to that," Lex said, deep and sultry. Clark hardened again a little, which made him worry that those warped associations were already taking root. "Clark?" 

"Mmm," Clark hummed quietly, idly trailing his fingers over one nipple. 

"I wasn't joking about the pillow fort." 

* * *

As it turned out, Clark didn't have to push the plane himself. He made it back to Metropolis just in time for a burst of superspeed to get him up to the penthouse for seven o'clock sharp. Lex greeted him with an enthusiastic kiss before they settled down to dinner at the immaculately-set table. This was traditional, this private catered dinner for two, and also traditional was the sweaty passionate sex that followed amid the snowy linens and silverware. 

"I missed you," Lex confessed, tugging a corner of the tablecloth up to cover his ass. 

"Missed you, too," Clark answered, pulling Lex closer and enjoying the shape of him, the familiarity of him, in his arms. 

"I forgot to ask --" Lex said, hauling himself up a little to meet Clark's eyes. "How was the rest of your night with my father?" 

Clark grimaced in memory. 

"He got you, huh?" Lex said, sympathetically, settling back down. "Well, you survived it, anyway." 

Clark flushed a little, and Lex must have felt the rush of heat against his skin, because he was sitting up again almost immediately. "Clark?" 

Clark blushed even more. "He -- we woke up. Um. Cuddling?" 

"You --" Lex began, incredulous. "So he _did_ get you?" 

"Well, apparently," Clark began, staring up at the ceiling, avoiding Lex's gaze. "Apparently ... I got him." 

Clark could _feel_ Lex's disbelieving gape. 

"He said -- that he woke up ... and I was. Um. Snuggling into him." 

Lex was quiet. Deadly quiet. 

"Anyway, I guess he couldn't get out of my grasp -- well, I _am_ pretty strong -- so he just fell asleep again." Lionel had been so cheerful about it. Like Clark had been inducted into the ranks of Phillip of Macedon, Bruckner, and Shakespeare. 

Lex was still quiet. Likely he was trying to absorb the news that Clark had mauled his father in his sleep. 

"Anyway, I mean. Nothing happened. At least, no ... iambic pentameter." 

"No iamb--" Lex repeated, confused. "Never mind." And with that, he settled back down into Clark's embrace, apparently unruffled. 

Clark didn't really want to question this gift of acceptance, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Lex?" 

"Mmm?" 

"You don't sound too surprised." 

Lex laughed under his breath. "Well, Clark ... let's just say my dad might have been the first night humper to share my bed ... but he sure wasn't the last." 

Clark opened and closed his mouth several times as he tried to absorb this knowledge. "I --" he tried, then stopped. "You mean --" and stopped again. "All this time --" but that sentence went unfinished as well. 

Lex burrowed further into Clark's shoulder and smiled against Clark's skin. "At least you don't like Kenny G, too." 


End file.
